God Willing
by Gemenied
Summary: When she accepted him, he knew he'd never leave her again, even if it meant going to the end of the world. Which is why they find themselves exactly there.
1. Chapter 1

Title: God Willing

Rating: T

Disclaimer: I don't own the show or the characters. Neither did the setting come to me first - I just play.

Summary: When she accepted him, he knew he'd never leave her again, even if it meant going to the end of the world. Which is exactly, why they find themselves exactly there.

A/N: This story was basically inspired by a few lines in Joodiff's awesome story "Walkabout". It's part of a series, because the idea is beginning to take a life of its own. Hope you enjoy. (An added scene of more adult content exists - if you want to read it, please, pm me for the link)  
Many thanks go to ShadowSamurai83 for the beta of the first chapter.

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**"God Willing" **

**Prologue**

**Day: -1**

"Inshallah." He's repeating the word in his head like a mantra. They've told him in the briefing that this is the most used phrase of the locals and that many of the Coalition soldiers have adopted the phrase. Some sort of blending in and reaction to the stress of the battle, or some such psychological bollocks. It's Grace's job to analyse and deal with this thing, not his.

Still, he repeats the phrase in his mind as he slowly, but methodically, goes through the motions of setting up for the night. The back door, the windows, the front door. It seems a little useless, considering that it is their last night, but there is some sort of routine in it and he needs the normality.

Otherwise he won't sleep.

Upstairs, the shower is turned off, so he hurries to be in the master bedroom before she's out of the en-suite. On his way, he takes pains to ignore the packed suitcases next to the front door. Two. One for her, one for him. Same size. Not many things in there. A lot less than he would consider necessary for a two-week holiday. Most of the things he or she would consider necessary for a two-week holiday trip to Spain will remain here. They are useless where they go.

"Inshallah," he repeats as he enters the bedroom they've shared for the last few weeks and moves around the room to light a few candles. It's not his normal thing, too touchy-feely, but there will hardly be a night when it is more appropriate.

It's their last night here. The last night in safety.

Grace stops in the doorway as she appears from the bathroom and takes a moment to look around. Her smile is small but distinctly amused. "Putting on the romance?" she asks lightly.

He shrugs, but opens his arms in invitation.

She doesn't hesitate and steps into his embrace. She's warm, her skin still a little damp from her shower, and very fragrant from the shower cream she's used. Last indulgence too.

Boyd holds her tightly against him, trying to banish the constant reminder. So many things are the 'last' tonight and if one started to really think about it...

He isn't sure he would go, if he thought too much about it.

Her hands cup both of his cheeks, then move to gently pull his head back so he has to look up at her. "We made this decision together, Boyd, and we will get through it together."

"No fear?"

"I _am_ afraid," she replies and shrugs lightly. "Doesn't mean that I will step back now."

"You are very brave," he says and means it. It is something he wouldn't have considered possible. The professional offer was summarily forgotten, once Grace admitted to loving him. What he'd said was true, as soon as they admitted their feelings to each other, no offer - despite the truly silly amount of money - would have taken him away from her again.

Boyd's come home to this woman and that's where he intends to stay.

He made the phone call from this very room, this very spot in fact, the morning after the memorable night before. Quietly, so as not to disturb Grace who was still, seemingly, asleep.

"No regrets?" she asked him then and he shook his head and lost himself in her again.

For him, that had been it and it was good that way.

"Don't think too much, Boyd," she says quietly and it sounds alien to him. Wasn't that supposed to be his line?

How she can be so calm in the face of what's expecting them, Boyd isn't sure he can understand.

He refused a second offer, made two days after he rejected the first. He refused a third, a week later, telling the Home Office then that he had personal reasons, his partner was in steady employment in London and he had no intention of leaving her. Maybe that was the mistake. The Home Office, bastards that they had proved to be during the time they had given his police unit a criminal profiler and a forensic scientist, have not changed.

The same evening Grace came home from the office and wordlessly dropped a sheaf of papers onto the kitchen table. He didn't need to read extensively, the letter head was a dead giveaway.

"The amount of money is ridiculous, Boyd."

He shrugged in reply. What could he say?

"Do they want you to convince me?" he asked after a minute or so, during which he tried to read in her face.

There was a small sarcastic smile flitting around the corners of her mouth and for a moment, he didn't know how to take it. "No, they offer me silly money to take a job that will ensure your acceptance of their job offer."

"I told them, I'm going nowhere where you aren't."

She laughed, and it was one of those where he didn't know whether to join in or be offended. After ten years, he still can't tell the difference. When she sobered up, her expression turned so serious and deep that he knew he wouldn't like her next words.

"They heard you loud and clear, which is why they decided that they'd rather take the package deal than not getting anything."

"I don't understand," Boyd replied, which was a lie. It was more his refusal to believe what Grace was insinuating.

"There is only one psychiatric nurse for the entire UK contingent, Boyd. They are short some personnel. "

"You are not going!" he declared, uselessly, of course.

The ensuing 'discussion' was discordant and severe, harshly reminding him of the rows they used to have. It lasted several hours and included the obligatory slammed doors, broken glass, and magnificent sulking on both sides.

Strangely, it gave him relief that they hadn't grown too soft with each other, too complacent yet.

They worked it out at two in the morning, both exhausted, both tired of the old habit. There were more interesting and rewarding things to be done and had. Which they did, after mutual apologies.

Still, and in a way Boyd couldn't believe just how she had convinced him, days later they found themselves in a briefing, outlining the situation in Kabul. Since then, Grace has been of almost stoic composure, taking all the information in and somehow probably saving them all in her memory. The officers briefing them couldn't stop fawning over what a trooper she is, causing the man by her side to growl impolitely.

Secretly, Boyd can't help but admire her too. She's unfazed by all they are told, focussing more on what she's supposed to be doing, not on what could happen.

"Don't think tonight," she says, her fingers tangling and pulling on his hair. The look in her eyes is already so familiar, so clear in its invitation. The composed, intellectual Dr. Foley has the most incredible set of 'come to bed eyes' he's ever seen. In any woman. And it works on him every time.

Her slight body is barely covered by the flimsy silk of a nightgown. Not her usual thing, which tells him that this night is special and important to her as well. Light teal, that brings out the colour of her eyes and her pale skin. There's no need for this kind of seduction, but Boyd is a man and appreciates it all the more.

Tomorrow the indulgences of a soft bed, expensive and fragrant shower cream, and a silky nightgown, will be forgotten luxuries.

When Grace leans down and brushes her lips against his in a clear invitation, he doesn't hesitate. His hands brush possessively up and down her back, cup and squeeze her buttocks as he pulls her slowly down with him onto the bed.

This is the night of all nights.

Their night.

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Thank you for reading. Comments would be greatly appreciated.


	2. Chapter 2

A/N: Here is the next chapter. Hope you enjoy. Many thanks to my lovely betas.

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**1st - Day 16 (January 22th)**

Nobody who knows him would be surprised by the mood he is in. The day's been abysmal in every way imaginable and he's not dealing well. The average number of snow days in this place is supposed to be only one in January, yet they've been having white sleet for four days now. Not the real thing that covers the land and stays for a few hours at least. It would improve the looks of the place, some actual colour over the depressing grey-brown of the city.

Instead it's sleeting and the dust that hasn't frozen flat tumbles with the ever-blowing wind, forcing itself into eyes and nose and mouth. It causes constant snottiness, which Boyd finds disgraceful. As a result, there's also a lot of nosebleed involved, which a man of his age simply should not have to deal with anymore.

Since it is also freezing cold, Boyd's general disposition is dark. Despite his recent trip all over the world, he finds that his previous words are true. He wasn't roughing it back then, finds that it is no longer his kind of thing. If it ever was. Maybe he's become soft, a creature dependent on his comforts. It's not a pleasant thought for his ego, but he's already found that his ego must take the blow and get on with it.

It's a strange realization and not one he likes particularly, but this place has different rules. He wasn't naive enough to think of this as an adventure camping trip, but reality is even harsher than he imagined.

It's been a hard day today. Not the worst, Boyd thinks, but far from the best too. They've not lost any men throughout the day, but there were two already dead in the morning. He's grateful for small mercies, not having to see a man being blown up in front of his eyes is a lot better than the alternative. But his mind isn't eased.

They are losing men and fast. The fact that they are not soldiers, but simple policemen bringing back some order... But that's the political limbo that is spouted on the big TV channels everywhere in the world. Kabul is just as much a war zone as other areas of this country. It's quieter than other places and he wouldn't want to switch, but anybody thinking that this is just an outdoor adventure trip organized by Hendon is laughably wrong.

Wearily he runs an ungloved hand over his tired face and barely swallows his curse, as his hand falls limply back to his side. There's been dust in his glove, bound by his clammy hands and now he's rubbed it over the skin of his face. A free peeling certainly, but not something he fancied having.

He wonders if there'll be hot water enough for him not only to be warm, but clean as well. It never lasts long, but it would be good. They'll have to share and that's nowhere near romantic as it sounds. Grace doesn't complain, not about her icy limbs or the basic state of their living arrangements. She just smiles and goes on. Somehow.

In this moment, Boyd is sure that she will endure it here a lot longer than he does, but can't explain why. It's hard and it's drab and any romanticised sort of heroics has already gone out of the game.

Today leaves him weary. The two scenes they've visited - one actual and planned crime scene investigation, the other close to home. Their own men. Both face down. Unarmed, in a sidestreet between rubble and rubbish.

Interviews brought the result of bugger all - a pub brawl. It sounds ridiculous, considering that alcohol is still publicly abhorred. In addition, though not overly well, he knew the two men as rather pious Muslims and family men. Unless they were on a stakeout, they'd have had no reason and no inclination to be anywhere near a pub.

He had none ordered.

It's too early in his tenure to risk that. Too early for many things.

It goes against all he is, to go slowly, to make those small baby-steps, to tread carefully. He rails and rages against it, in the small amount of privacy he shares with Grace.

But he isn't there yet, they are still packing up from their day's work and it's still a good hour until his work day is done, even longer for Grace.

He focuses on the proceedings again, taking a deep breath to centre himself. He's in charge, but the men are not yet loyal to him, do not yet trust him the way they need to for this to work.

"Remember the radio-box, Abdul!" he calls, making sure to keep his voice polite, yet firm. Shouting is not the easy ticket here, he's already learned that.

The men expect something from him - actually, both sides of men expect something from him. His employers expect to have Afghan police forces trained with a snip of their fingers, at barely any expense, but with democratic and Western individualist rights fully ingrained into the future policemen. The recruits expect a leader, who doesn't abuse them, but at the same time takes no shit from them. They want a dictator without the violence and the threats.

And they don't want to get blown up at any given moment.

That's easier said than done.

Boyd picks up another of the rusty boxes, not for the first time wishing Eve was there, or Frankie, or even Felix, but there's no money and no interest in forensic science here, and even less the opening for a woman performing it. The case ends up on the back of the SUV with a little more force than necessary, but it's not entirely due to his bad mood.

The wind has picked up, driving the dust around faster, flinging it against everything in its way. The man standing there, just as much as the walls and the cars. It's cold and harsh.

"Lets get out of here," Boyd orders, climbing onto the back of the other SUV. The recruits have to use this kind of transport too, and though he is the ridiculously high-paid English bloke who's supposed to be teaching them the ways of policing, he knows that getting onto some common ground will help him a long way.

Enduring the hardships together, creating a bond and all that crap. Sounds like typical Grace and not for the first time does he wonder whether doing an actual relationship is such a good idea. She might rub off on him too much.

He suppresses the thought quickly, just as the smile threatening to accompany it. It's shortly before evening prayers, the muezzin will call in a few minutes, and somehow it seems...well, it seems odd, thinking about his...woman...while in the back of a truck with a bunch of Muslims.

The drive is short and they make it just in time for the prayer call. The recruits scramble off urgently, but not without at least a polite nod. It isn't much, but it's a start.

Boyd climbs onto the passenger's seat, now that it's just the driver, the interpreter and him. He gives the man cool nod as he climbs out again. Having to rely on somebody to translate his words doesn't sit well with him. He won't keep 'the voice' for much longer, feels it disturbs the connection he built with his men. They all speak basic English and they will learn as things progress. Besides, something bothers Boyd about having to rely on the words of somebody else.

Inside the cabin it is comparatively warm and within minutes exhaustion creeps up on his body. Being outside so much, in this bracing conditions, wears him out, though he'd never admit to it. It wouldn't do any good for his image - the old man who can't take the pace anymore. Yet there is no denying it, only the potholed ground that makes the mile or so to the camp more of a rollercoaster ride than anything else keeps him from succumbing to sleep.

He'll be glad to reach his humble abode and put his feet up. He also wouldn't mind a snifter of good whisky or, alternatively, some of that heavy red wine that Grace has stocked in her house. But the only thing they have is tea and small drops of brandy to go with it.

This is a Muslim country. Alcohol is an affront. If he came to work in the morning and his recruits could smell the remnants...

Boyd shakes his head, tries to bury the thought. Tonight, he thinks, he deserves something and a foot rub, if possible. Grace will silently provide him with the first, but the latter is probably too much asked. She'll raise her eyebrows at him and if worst comes to worse she'll want an explanation, one Boyd isn't willing and capable to give.

Of course, she'll have heard about the two dead men already. This is Grace and at least to him it doesn't come as a surprise that she has already built up lines of underground communication. There is very little in the camp she doesn't hear about before the day is out, and surprisingly much from what happens in town. The grapevine is very active, even in Kabul, and Grace Foley has already redirected the lines to her advantage.

She's a miracle, he muses, as he slowly marches towards the little structure that people euphemistically call a bungalow. It looks and feels nothing like the bungalows he's encountered on his rare holidays. But it's more than the soldiers get, and it's his and Grace's.

Inside, it's dark, the shutters not having been open all day. It's the only way to keep the dust properly out, but with no sunlight the rooms are always dim, always a little unfriendly. It strikes him as odd, how the dungeons of the CCU-offices seemed to be so much warmer, so much brighter. So, the first thing he does is to turn the heating higher and turn on a few lights.

Once this is done, he sheds his utility parka and stumps around the room to check on their evening supplies. It's not much, but he dreads going out again and getting something from the Mess. He will, of course, if Grace doesn't bring any, mainly because he doesn't want her to have to brave the elements again.

Boyd hasn't forgotten, though she seems to have, that it's been two years, barely more, since she was in hospital battling cancer. Since then she gets cold more easily, her lithe body providing less resilience. This weather is absolute horror for her. But she doesn't complain.

Grace never does.

As if on cue the door opens again, admitting Grace, and before she even says anything, he reacts to the visible shivers, pulling her into his arms.

For a few moments they are quiet, absolute silence filling the room. It feels peaceful, for the first time since the morning.

"How are you?" she opens quietly, knowing she won't get an actual, comprehensive answer. It's too early in the pattern they are forming. He won't talk before there isn't some food and some hot drink in him.

She has heard about the two dead men, of course, it was part of the daily camp gossip. The psychologist in her wants to resolve the issue, get him to deal with it, but she knows him well enough to give him some time. Things have changed and Boyd is much more open and outspoken than he used to be, but he will never be somebody to wear his thoughts on his sleeve.

Grace doesn't expect that.

"Do we have any food?" she thus asks quietly. "I'm starving."

"Worked through lunch break?" he asks and admonishes at the same time.

"Like you did, I'm sure."

He smiles, feeling the tension in his body recede a little.

"You okay?" he asks instead, earning him a smile and a nod. "What do you fancy for dinner then?"

It sounds inane, this conversation, but Boyd finds it strangely soothing. The normality of an ordinary life, squeezed into a few hours and thirty feet square. For those few moments they could be a couple like any other, anywhere on the planet.

"I doubt the Mess carries proper Ratatouille tonight," breaks the illusion.

He shakes his head. "Don't think so. Anything you absolutely don't want?"

Boyd's willingness to go and fetch their dinner is clearly implied, but Grace shakes her head. "I'll come with you, some actual fresh air will do me good. Clear my head."

He gives her a long look, trying to gauge the reason for her eagerness to endure the weather again. The list of possibilities is remarkably short and he feels uneasy at the thought of how dangerous her patients could be. What if, one day, one of them...cracks?

She doesn't give him the chance to dwell on it for long, picking up his jacket with one hand, while holding onto him with the other and within a minute they are outside again.

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They don't remain in company for long, just enough to order and pick up their food. A few short small talks with superiors or people daring to come up to them, but there aren't many. They are still eyed carefully as the new ones in town, the civilians. Many wonder what two people like them - of their age, is silently added, and professional standing - do in such a place. Of course, they know the official information and the first days have brought nothing to doubt the information value, but they are the odd ones out.

It's also noted how much they keep to themselves, which raises a few eyebrows. The youngsters can hardly imagine that those two actually have something going on, even though they aren't subtle or circumspect. Others shake their head at the choice of place for a romance.

For the moment, it doesn't matter though, the couple is gone quickly; it's warm inside the Mess and there's food to be had and hopefully eaten in a few minutes of peace. They all need it, they all deserve that.

Back in their home, Boyd bustles around lighting candles and making tea, while Grace changes and dishes out the food. It's done quietly, instinctively, which is calming and irritating at the same time. Not something Boyd is used to.

There are many things he isn't used to, especially the close living quarters. It's been years for him since he's shared the same living space with anybody, quite a few more for Grace. She didn't say anything, but Boyd knows that it's only a matter of time until they will fight over the mundane and petty of shared living space, and that she has already analyzed every possible angle of this fact. It will irritate him when the time comes, but that's still in the future and not to be dwelt on.

Grace comes out of the tiny bathroom, shrouded in several layers of clothes against the cold that she feels, even though the building is well heated. Hair dishevelled and without make-up she looks years older and years younger at the same time. It's a mystery to him, but Boyd doesn't complain. He likes the contradiction.

She smiles, unhesitatingly stepping into his arms. They stay like this for a while, in the silence, and for those moments the world doesn't exist.

If Boyd had a say in it, he'd keep it like that, but he's seen Grace's appraising looks during their food tour. She'll ask questions sooner or later and she'll want answers.

Even though he isn't completely happy about it, he will talk.

"Bring up the dishes," he says quietly. "I'll bring the tea."

Grace shakes her head. "I'll do it. You'll get out of those clothes."

He smirks. "Propositioning me before dinner, Dr. Foley?"

"And if I were?"

He gives her a long look through narrowed eyes, trying to gauge how serious she is. At the same time, he tries to discern just how greedy _he_ is.

"Missed your chance," she announces and turns away with a laugh. "Make yourself comfortable, Boyd. I'll do the wifely tasks."

"Wifely," he snorts, but obeys.

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They've done the dinner, have progressed now to the tea on the small sofa - both mugs with a healthy dose of the brandy. The sofa is pure luxury, provided to placate the ridiculously highly paid civilian experts with a few creature comforts in this God forsaken place.

It's dark, it's cosy, the perfect romantic setting, but Boyd isn't in the mood for it. In fact, the more time of the evening slips away, the more edgy he gets. Grace won't let the events of the day go unspoken, won't let him escape without some sort of 'unburdening talk'. She knows it pisses him off, knows he needs it too.

What drives him mad this time is the fact that she waits for him to start. He doesn't want to, doesn't know how to express that.

"It's a bloody waste!" he all but explodes finally.

Grace doesn't answer, doesn't even noticeably react to his sharp tone. She waits for more, but once this is said, Boyd doesn't have more words for the moment, isn't sure what to say.

"It feels like some fucking conspiracy! Bring them out and we'll kill them one by one. You get one step closer to us, we move two steps away."

"You think it was premeditated murder?" she asks quietly and looks up at him.

He shrugs helplessly. "Two Muslim men, family men, killed in a pub brawl? Outside the area they live in? Anybody who thinks that is a coincidence is a few cards short of the full pack."

She takes his hands and pulls them against her chest, willing warmth and comfort into him. "What does really bother you about this, Peter?"

"Two men are dead, Grace! After we had one dead yesterday, and one the day before, and before that day... What do you think, bothers me about that, huh?"

"Several things, to be honest," she claims and sits up, all business.

"I don't want to hear it!"

The air is suddenly thick with a tension they both know very well from years of experience. Their eyes locked, it's a silent stand-off. Different from the years before, but it will take only a little thing for them to do exactly what they've done for years.

"Sorry," he growls out, not really sounding like he means it.

Still, Grace accepts the word as such. "You worry that tomorrow it will be the same."

Boyd exhales on a sarcastic laugh, rubbing his face tiredly. "I wonder, if there will ever be a day when I come home at night and not have a man killed. When they said during the pre-briefings that about eight men in Afghan police forces get killed every day..."

"...It sounded like a gross exaggeration then, didn't it?" she finishes quietly for him, while she scoots closer and slips her arm around his shoulder. "I didn't believe it either."

"I don't know, if I can do this, Grace. It's like..."

"...Mel all over again." He nods, unprepared for her to continue. "In more ways than one."

"What do you mean?"

She doesn't answer immediately, weighing the words she wants to say quickly against the result that would have. They are still in the exploratory stages and despite all the progress they've made individually and together, this is a longstanding minefield between them.

"Grace?" Boyd doesn't ask, despite the pitch of his voice.

"They do things without your knowledge, without your...permission even...like Mel did when she followed up on her idea with the medallion..."

"Oh trust me, Grace..." He jumps from the sofa and starts pacing, the frustration of the day manifesting in restless energy. "Those men are nothing like Mel..."

"...Not on an emotional level, no, but..."

"And on any other level!" He turns suddenly, leaning down so that their faces are level. It's imposing, this gesture, even intimidating. They both know it, can feel it. They both know too, that it is entirely misplaced in this situation and setting.

The stand-off lasts for a few moments, without either gaining the upper hand.

"It still gets to you," Grace finally announces the verdict.

Boyd exhales noisily instead of an answer, his hands haphazardly running through his hair for want of a better thing to do with them. "Of course, it does, Grace! For fuck's sake, it's either their death or defection to the Taliban with those men! How can that not get to me?"

"It's not your fault..."

"And I can't fucking change it either, I know!"

She doesn't answer, waiting for the storm to pass. While the room seemed cool at first, then cosy, it now seems to be oppressive. It's one of those situations they were warned against, but those people in the briefings didn't know a thing, did they? Didn't know how personal policing is to Boyd, how volatile their relationship still is. The strain...

"What can I do?" she asks. The inanity of the question makes her cringe, it's a throwback to old times in the office. Grace doesn't need to think hard to imagine how this will play out.

Much calmer than expected Boyd sits down again and suddenly his arm is around her shoulder. If it weren't for the tight squeeze of his hand on her arm, nothing would betray just how worked up he is. "Be here and stay here," he says.

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Thank you for reading. Comments would be greatly appreciated.


	3. Chapter 3

**A/N: It's been a long time, since I posted, but I hope you are still with me and will 'enjoy' this chapter as it is.**

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**2nd - Day 39 (February 14th)**

He doesn't like the way he feels, doesn't like the wind throwing the dust against his face. It is scratchy, painful, but it is the only thing that cuts through his numbness.

Such things have happened to him before, but never like that, and never with such a clear image in his mind of what he would be leaving behind and in what a state. His fists are clenched on his knees, the only outward sign of weakness he is willing to give. Everything else is hidden behind his closed eyes.

Boyd knows he can't keep the world shut out like that for long. Of course not. Much less after what has just happened. He can feel their eyes on him, expecting something, anything. He isn't sure he can give them that.

He's always been woeful at the personal thing, the verbal, warm encouragement - that is Grace's terrain. It is, of course, feasible to think that a more brash approach would be more successful amongst the men, but this place is such an interaction minefield - every word or gesture possibly deadly - that he can't trust himself.

Besides, the images are still running through his head, yet he can't make head nor tail of where it has gone wrong. Everything has been normal until that very moment. They've left the base, prepared to do some crime scene work. It's an easy enough case - breaking and entering having gone wrong. Boyd still isn't sure why anybody would even attempt a burglary when everybody in the area is so painfully poor, but to find the reasons is part of their job.

The weather has been abysmal all day, stormy with spots of heavy rain. They needed to get the scene processed quickly before all outside evidence was washed away and all inside trampled on by dirty shoes. With him were a few of the more experienced recruits, all four of them hardened men who were shocked by little. They've lived in a war zone all their lives, gun shots firing around them hold little fear.

The street had looked as desolate as many others and quickly it had become clear that the burglar could hardly have been after any riches. Unless, of course, the house had been used as a storage for guns or drugs, or some money laundering office. Of course, they've stuck out like sore thumbs with their truck, their equipment and even their clothes - stuck out and eyed suspiciously.

Maybe that was when he should have become more vigilant. But the idea of a chase, of the puzzle they'd have to solve, actual police and detective work to do - Boyd had been too pleased with this little bit of professional normalcy to watch their surroundings more carefully, and the men hadn't bothered.

And now they are sitting on the back of the truck being shaken back to camp and Boyd doesn't know what to say. The men are still looking at him, though he isn't entirely certain what they expect of him - encouragement, sympathy, a raise of their spirits?

Grace would know, of course, would probably have noticed the danger building up, before it hit them so spectacularly. But she is safely (hopefully) ensconced in her office dealing with some young Private's heartbreak over his girlfriend's tears back home. She can't help him now.

Groaning inwardly, Boyd opens his eyes and unclenches his fists, then leans forward towards the men. Not too much, so as not to invade their space, but to create some sort of closeness. Giving the men a quick, crooked smile, he speaks quietly, expecting the interpreter to pick up and translate. They probably don't need him, but the man needs to feel useful, doesn't he?

"You did well out there," he says. "Disciplined under pressure and focused on the job. That was good work."

Looking every man in the eyes individually, he nods to reiterate the meaning behind his words. Loyalty and discipline is, for the moment, more important than proper procedure. It is something, if very little.

The men return the look, long and hard, before the eldest of them slowly nods. "Thank you," he replies, though the words are difficult to distinguish under the heavy accent.

It is like this that they rumble into the courtyard of their base, with dents and holes in the side of the truck, dirt thrown all over it, but thankfully no blood spilling over the metal. They've been lucky and they all know it.

* * *

It is late by the time Boyd reaches the military base and is finally free to slowly and sluggishly make his way towards their bungalow. If he is honest, he doesn't relish coming home. He isn't ready for questions, isn't ready or even willing to talk about his feelings in lieu of being shot at during crime scene procedure.

He is numb and would prefer to remain that way, preferably with a few whiskeys to help along.

Only Grace won't accept that, she will press and needle until he explodes in desperate defence, and then they'll be hell in the middle of a spectacular row. She's been tartly and glib for days, something weighing heavily on her mind, disturbing her built-in serenity.

He's been worried about it, about her, but tonight he isn't in the mood to deal with it, to cater to her needs. He is needy tonight. Needs her to cater to his wishes. Not the other way around.

The compound is bright as day through the hundreds of floodlights lighting it. It's so harsh that Boyd wonders whether the compound can be seen from space, but down here it's a stark reminder that all those lights are search lights as well, to find any possible assassin before they can do their work.

It feels warmer in here, an illusion maybe, but Boyd is glad for it. His gaze goes automatically to the medical offices. It's late and the windows are mostly dark, but he finds the sight somewhat soothing. If Grace only lets him be tonight, asks no questions, doesn't demand explanations, doesn't even try for small talk, they'll somehow get through tonight.

Of course, there's one thing she could do, though Boyd knows they aren't like that and he doesn't want her to feel like she has to. Though...in all honesty...tonight...

His steps are heavy, the collar of his jacket chafes against his neck, the wind burns against his ears. Still it feels warmer, which is all good and fine, given that the deepest winter should begin to lift now in mid-February.

The short row of bungalows at the end of the pathway catches his eye and Boyd rejoices just as much as he dreads reaching their somewhat homely front. Inside it will be dark, but hopefully Grace will have the heating turned up and some food on the table. A whisky or two as well. The best part about that crappy domesticity.

And hopefully her mood will be better than it has been those last days.

Boyd still bristles at it, the domesticity. It was a given, yes, but they share little over 30 feet square, which is a huge luxury on this compound, especially since this area is private, but they are two long-time singles, set in their ways and fiercely territorial.

It's not the best mixture, despite the fact that she loves him and he adores her. Not the easiest thing at all. Maybe that's the problem, has been for the last days, but somehow Boyd isn't so sure.

Something is niggling at the back of his mind, just out of his reach, but he can't grasp it. Some edginess he's caused or should be aware of, but he isn't. It's frustrating, an added irritation in his already unpleasant day.

The inside of the bungalow is warm and dim and there's a glass on the coffee table, which is filled with amber liquid. The burning candles are giving the place a homey feeling. There's even a little quiet music in the air. All of it is appreciated, more than Boyd thought he would do, but at the same time the situation confuses him. Except the music there's nothing out of the ordinary - the rooms are usually dim and they use candles quite often. Even the occasional whisky appears in the privacy of those walls.

It's the combination of things, the numbers, that confuse him. There's also the smell of Grace's perfume in the air, stronger than he's used to, though that may be due to the day he's had and the atmosphere outside and the countryside and God knows what.

Boyd doesn't question it, just drops his jacket over the back of a chair and his boots next to the coffee table. His feet go up onto the surface automatically as he leans back and sips from his whisky. This is the peace and quiet he has waited for since all hell broke loose.

"Boyd?" Grace asks quietly behind him and he slowly and languidly turns his head and mumbles out a detached "Evening. What's for dinner?"

"Hello." Her reaction isn't very positive or very eager. In fact, there is slight, but distinctive anger in her voice. She stands there just in front of the bathroom door, as if expecting something, but when it doesn't come, she slips back into the room and closes the door behind her.

It confuses him but he doesn't feel like analysing the situation and just shrugs, returning to his whisky.

The next time Grace appears, some time later, there's a definite air around her. She moves somewhat jerkily, tension radiation off of her. She makes her way to the small kitchenette and dishes the food out, with more force than strictly necessary. It's not obvious, but Boyd knows her well, can't help but pick up on it.

"What is it?" he asks, trying to keep his voice on the gentle side. He's tired, irritated and frustrated, and the last thing he could stand tonight is a row with Grace over his apparent lack of emotional perception. Something is off, has been for a while, and he is loath to let it go on. Knowing Grace, it will only get worse.

"Grace," he starts with more force. "What's the matter?"

"Nothing." The answer is short and on the cool side, a clear indication that it's a lie.

He nods, though they both know that it's not affirmation he states. "Nothing," he repeats.

"What do you want, Boyd?"

The speed and harshness of the reply surprises him, makes him get up from the sofa and start for the kitchenette. He can hear Grace sigh loudly and unwelcomingly, but he's never been one to back down, just because it would have been easier.

"Look, Grace," he says as calmly as he can muster. "I've had a shit day. Shit in capital letters. I don't have the energy to guess what's got you so pissed off with me, so why don't you just tell me?"

"Then what?" she replies, giving him a hard stare. When he doesn't answer, her frown deepens, her voice becoming even more pronouncedly harsh. "What happens then, Boyd? You apologise for a change? You shag me to get it out of my system? You slam the front door and bunk with the soldiers in avoidance?"

They are silent for a moment, locked in a staring contest, locked in vitriol they haven't experienced in years, then Boyd turns, stomps into his boots, grabs his jacket and is out of the structure before either can react.

Inside, Grace leans against a cupboard, eyes screwed shut, nails digging into her palms.

* * *

It's no surprise to Boyd that he ends up in the Mess. There is no other place to go at this time of the day in the camp. This is the place for a drink, for movies to be shown, for pretty much all extra-curricular activities. Everybody turns up at this place at some point.

It's also the only place where the soldiers can openly get some alcohol, though in fairly low doses.

And at this time of the year - it's warm.

To Boyd's surprise the place is packed and, even more surprisingly, the atmosphere is subdued. As usual there are small groups of lads who cause commotion with horseplay and laughter, also taunting their fellows, but even that is quieter than normal.

There hasn't been a large number of casualties that day, in fact, Boyd hasn't heard of one, so the low mood strikes him as odd. It's also obvious that many of the soldiers prefer to sit alone.

At the counter, he orders a shot of whisky and pays quickly with a growl when the Private behind gives him a confused look. He's not the first who does so since he's entered the room and that makes Boyd edgy.

Of course, Grace and he are some sort of sensation in the camp - the civilian oldies who seem to like war zones as backdrop for a romance. It's a bit derisive, a bit derogatory, and if Grace didn't find the entire gossip so funny and Boyd cared any bit about it, he'd be a whole lot more shouty.

Alas, gossip is nothing new and at least it's been mostly respectful. At least, Grace has never said anything to the contrary. The thought begins to nag at Boyd's consciousness, a memory sweeping over him and the he quickly tries to suppress it. There's still the sheepish shrug and the no fuss-comment. And there's still the bed and the pyjamas, which for some reason he remembers intensely. And grapes. Which she wasn't allowed to eat.

Grace would tell him now, wouldn't she?

He sits down at a table near the back of the Mess, his back towards the wall, keeping the room in sight. The whisky isn't good quality, staple, supermarket-stuff, they have much better in their bungalow. For emergencies. Still, it does the job, burns down his throat, aids the brooding.

Grace would tell him if something was wrong, now that they are officially a couple. Wouldn't she? He knows she can take care of herself, he'd never dare to doubt that. She can resolve sticky situations much more elegantly than he does, but if somebody or something bothered her, she'd tell him, her partner. It's something they agreed on when they started. It's something they, he, intends to keep.

With annoyance, Boyd notices somebody sitting down next to him, his temper quickly rising when the young woman, one of the nurses who sometimes helps out for Grace, starts to speak. "What are you doing here, Mr. Boyd?"

He gives her a half-glare and raises his glass in reply. The whisky sloshes slightly against the walls of the glass.

The nurse frowns. "Why drink here? And alone? Today, of all days."

Boyd doesn't answer, though his frown deepens. In the stretching silence the nurse looks away and stares into mid-distance, slipping into some sort of melancholy haze.

"Anything special about today?"

The woman snorts derisively, then gives him an incredulous look that's mixed with anger. "February Fourteenth: you figure it out, Mr. Policeman. Especially since you are pretty much the only one in camp who can actually do this day this year." She shakes her head in aggravation and takes a gulp from her own drink.

Boyd doesn't do such festivities on principle. All those supposedly romantic things, which media and industry force you to go through. All these flowery, sweet things, he isn't the type for. Never had Grace pegged to find it important either. On the other hand, this is their first, he's never been in the situation to know or to ask. And Grace, he is quickly finding out, has many more secrets than he had expected. Maybe she is conventional in this regard and it would explain her edginess of the last days.

It certainly explains the candles and the drink and... In different surroundings and with different companions, this would be the moment where Boyd groans loudly to make his displeasure known. He doesn't.

Instead he downs his whisky and marches out of the Mess.

* * *

Inside the bungalow it is fairly dark, only two candles remaining. Their light is pithy and thus it takes Boyd a while to realise that Grace is sitting on the sofa, all but rolled into a ball. Her voice is rough when she quietly says, "I don't want to fight, Peter."

"This is not about me ignoring Valentine's Day," he states in reply.

She doesn't answer, which in itself is answer enough.

Gingerly, he sinks down into the upholstery and searches for her hand. She's cold, as always.

"No."

It's all that comes out and when silence stretches again, Boyd feels himself getting fidgety. "We were shot at today," he finally says. "Down at the scene. Came out of nowhere, some machine gun magazine emptied at us. The body work of the SUV is full of holes."

Grace remains silent. The only reaction is a turning of her hand in his. Her palm isn't much warmer than the back of her hand is.

"It seems to be the same every day. One dead, two dead, we are shot at..."

"You didn't expect that to happen in a war zone where foreigners aren't wanted?" She doesn't sound very forthcoming or understanding, but Boyd isn't speaking to receive either. The silence needs to be filled. The conversation kept going until Grace speaks for herself.

It's a new situation. A strange situation. In all those years, it's never been Boyd to take on the role of mediator between them. They fought, they made up, after a while and without many words. Not even an "I'm sorry." has been said in all their rows. This is new and he isn't sure it is the thing for him.

He squeezes her hand, glad to feel a response. "I don't know what I expected," he says. "But getting shot at on Valentine's Day wasn't it."

"So you remember that it's today."

The look he gives her from the corners of his eyes is long and speculative, silence filling the room again for a while. When Boyd speaks again, he is certain of what he says. "If that were the problem we wouldn't be sitting here like this. Holding hands, I mean."

Grace doesn't answer, but at least there's a quick twitch in the corners of her mouth.

"I'm not the flowers-type, you know that. Or the chocolate-type."

"What type are you?" she asks, the twitches turning into wobbly smirks.

"If it wasn't too obvious I'd say the 'Ann Summers'-type."

"Get out!" The reply is forceful, but there is no real antagonism in her.

"Which is why I'm not saying it." They are dispelling the tense situation with their trusty method of banter.

"Good."

"You are cold," he changes the subject, getting up to pick up a blanket and spread it over her. "And you look like you need a drink to tell me what's going on, Grace."

The tension they've just dissolved reappears in Grace's frame, along with a grimace she can't hide quickly enough. She's not happy with the arrangement, though she looks like she is resigned to the fact. It leaves him with a mixed bag of emotions, the fact that she's apprehensive to tell him something taking him back months and that damn hospital room. On the other hand, he's pleased to have noticed, relieved that whatever it is, it won't fester.

When they are settled, now both under the blanket, with a tumbler in their hands each, Grace swallows the drink almost in one go. She doesn't even cough, just stares sightlessly into the bottom of the glass.

"I don't like when you are being shot at," she finally ventures. "And I know," she stems Boyd's instinctive reply, "that you don't like it or asked for it either. I don't deal well with it."

He raises his hand to gently massage the back of her neck. "I don't like it either. The only thing that gives me any sort of calm is knowing that you are relatively safe in here."

"Because those soldiers protect me?" Her voice sounds even more monotone than before, her gaze fixed on the glass.

Boyd doesn't like the sound, doesn't like the uneasy ideas he's beginning to get. "Did anybody do...?"

"A Private, barely twenty...his girlfriend dumped him in the email he opened this morning. On Valentine's Day, he said... I had forgotten and if he hadn't said it..." She swallows. "I took his gun away. It was fully loaded, unsecured. He'd brought it to my office."

Though he desperately wants to ask, if only to hear a negative answer, Boyd doesn't.

"He wanted to shoot himself. In my office." Grace looks up, locks her gaze onto his.

The intensity shocks him, makes him worry. "I'm not safe here, Boyd. You need to accept that. Nobody _is_ safe here."

He pulls her roughly against him, heedless that they might stain the blanket with the leftover whisky, heedless of anything really, except holding Grace tightly against him, reassuring himself and her that they are healthy and alive, real. His hands wander, naturally, over and underneath clothes, unbelievably glad to feel Grace responding in kind.

It's an awkward fumble on the narrow sofa, careful as they are to keep the blanket covering them. Still they manage to wrestle out of clothes and into position, spooned together. It never ceases to amaze Boyd how well they fit, how simple it is with them.

Grace fits him, his body, his mind, her hands knowing without question how to touch him. They move carefully, unhurriedly and yet there's some desperation to the act, born from fear, born from the realisation of their vulnerability. Uncommonly, they are both quiet at the pinnacle, Grace biting her lower lip to even keep in her low sob. Boyd buries his face in her hair as he comes, unwilling to allow even the slightest distance.

They are quiet afterwards, though it is a much more calm silence than before.

"Not exactly how I imagined our first Valentine's Day to be," Boyd breaks the quiet after a while.

"You imagined...?" Grace sounds wobbly, which makes him scramble a little to see her face. There are tears slowly tracking their way over her cheeks and temples, just a few, but enough to pull on every string of feeling Peter Boyd possesses.

He shrugs, a little sheepishly. "I don't do flowers and chocolates and I promise I ignore Ann Summers, but, yeah...I did."

She smiles, though new tears spill, which he tenderly wipes away with his thumb.

"Why don't we go somewhere more comfortable...?"

"Where you can have your wicked way with me?"

"That too," he grins and lets his hands wander for some cheeky squeezes. "Once you've told me what else is bothering you."

Grace buries her face in his arm, pulling his body closer like a blanket that hides her. Boyd can't hear her muffled comment, but he's fairly sure he knows what three words she's just said.

* * *

Thank you for reading. Comments would be greatly appreciated.


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